


every inch of my tar black soul

by Idday



Series: raising hell all over town [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rule 63, Women in the NHL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 19:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16414493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Seeing Connor McDavid on his knees for her is addictive, but making him admit that he wants it—that's the real rush.





	every inch of my tar black soul

**Author's Note:**

> idek, guys. Obviously, don't read this if you are/know any of these people. Even the second cousins.
> 
> Heed the tags--potentially undernegotiated D/s, deets in the end notes.

He knocks on her door twenty minutes after she pulls into her driveway.

She doesn’t check the window before she pulls open her door, because she knew it would be him. She didn’t know he would come, but she’s not surprised to see him here, on her porch, shoulders hunched and holding a box. 

His eyes catch on her bare legs, the hem of the old BU jersey she’s wearing. She meets his gaze, steady, because she doesn’t have to fucking wear pants in her own home. Her home, her house, that she purchased with her money from her contract that she fucking earned.

“Want a drink?” she says. 

…

She keeps her house warm to fight off the lakeside chill, but Connor wears his coat into the kitchen, hands shoved in the pockets like he’s shielding himself from something, like he’s half uncertain he wants to be here at all.

“I heard you had a girl in the six,” she says conversationally as she reaches up for glasses. She’s aware of the hem of her jersey riding up as she stretches, aware that her panties don’t cover much. She’s aware of why he’s here, after all.

“What puck bunny blog have you been reading,” he says, and she laughs. She’s drinking whiskey, so he is, too, unless he tells her otherwise.

“Group chat,” she says. “Plus, nobody in this league can keep a secret to save their fucking lives. So, who are you about to cheat on?”

“No, that’s not...”

“Not happening?” She says, archly, and slides him a glass. She’s glad he catches it before it careens off the end of the counter, because the shards would be a bitch to clean up, and she’s barefoot. 

“Not a thing,” Connor says, “with the girl.”

“Shame,” she says, and smirks at him when she drinks. “She could have come, too.”

She watches that land, but he doesn’t react like she expects him to. He swigs the whiskey in his glass all in one go, and then puts the box on the counter, edges perfectly squared off.

“You know you don’t have to bring me expensive gifts, Connor,” she says, and doesn’t reach to open it. 

“I can afford it.”

“Yeah, so can I. That’s not the point. I’m super uninterested in having a sugar daddy, and that’s the point. I could  _be_ a sugar daddy.”

That makes him flush, and it could be the whiskey, but Jack knows him and she bets not. 

“Oh,” she says. She tries not to say it meanly, but she probably fails, and that’s okay. Sometimes, he likes it when she talks to him like that. Not always, but she thinks tonight, after he got shutout in her building, he’s probably wanting it. He’s reliable like that. 

Jack reaches over, and opens the box. She’s half afraid that it’s jewelry, but it’s not—he wouldn’t make that mistake. She dreads the morning that she wakes up to find a Lambo in her driveway. 

This time, it’s a watch. She doesn’t think she’s owned a wristwatch since the one she lost in second grade with the purple plastic band, but she likes this one, against her own better judgement. He probably dropped a cool thirty grand on it, and she fucking  _likes_ it.

Goddamnit. 

He reaches over to help her put it on when she struggles with the unfamiliar clasp. Once it’s latched, she takes his wrist, squeezes it.

“You don’t want to be my sugar daddy, do you?” she says. He can’t look at her. That’s how she knows she’s got it right. “You just like getting me nice things, making me happy. You just want me to tell you that you did a good job. Is that right?”

His mouth works. He must be so warm, in his coat and scarf. She’s going to have to take care of that.

“Connor,” she says firmly, and squeezes his wrist again. “Is that right? You want to make me happy? To hear that you did a good job? You want to earn that?”

“Yeah,” he says. 

…

She takes her glass to the living room and sits on the couch, one leg up on her coffee table, and Connor trails her.

They don’t always do it like this, but it didn’t take Jack long to figure out that she wanted it, sometimes. That she was good at it. That Connor would go down for her, might even ask for it. 

There was that time that she fucked him in Vegas, wearing those shoes—his shoes—and her harness, and nothing else. That time during the World Cup that she wore his jersey and made him call her captain. The other times. Seeing Connor McDavid on his knees for her is fucking addictive, but making him admit that he wants it—that's the real rush.

She takes a long sip, and then, quick enough to startle him, pushes the coffee table across the floor with her foot, creates a space in front of her.

“Strip,” she says. 

He starts with his scarf, loosens the knot and drops it to the floor. 

“Don’t make a mess,” she chides, “this place is new.”

He hesitates; reaches down and picks it back up. His face isn’t as blank as he wants it to be, she can tell he’s annoyed, but he folds the scarf neatly and comes a step closer to set it on the coffee table. 

“Good,” she says. 

It’s the coat that comes off next, revealing his suit. He came here straight from the rink, which means that he needs it more than he wants to admit. More than the time that it would have taken him to go change at the hotel. 

“I like that suit,” Jack says, giving him an appraising look. “You should wear your blue tie with it, next time. Will you?”

“Yes,” he says softly, and then reaches up to loosen the knot on this tie. He’s more subtle than Jack, but it’s obvious that he made an effort tonight, knowing he’d be playing in her city. 

The last time she’d played in Edmonton, she wore his shoes with her best-tailored pant suit. She’d worn lipstick the same color as the red soles, and she’d kept her sunglasses on all the way to the locker room, even though it made her look like a dick, or so Noah told her later. Connor had appreciated the photos, though, if the way he’d fucked her against the wall was anything to go by. 

The dress shirt goes next, one button at a time. He’s methodical and it should be funny, probably—she's just sitting here while he strips down like he’s in the locker room—but it’s not. He’s wearing an absurd amount of clothing. 

He pulls his undershirt over his head, folds it, adds it to the growing pile. He's still built from the summer, nowhere near as lanky as the first time they’d done this. She hates it, sometimes, how attracted to him she is. The way she can’t help tracing the cut of his shoulders as he leans down to pull off his socks. She’d laughed herself silly when she’d seen that GQ spread, but. She’d kept the magazine. 

He meets her eyes again, when he’s finally standing there in his slacks. He’s wearing a watch, too, and it doesn’t match hers, but, it’s not dissimilar.

“Go on,” she says. 

He’s already well on his way to hard, filling out in his briefs. The slacks are added to the pile of clothes, and then, after a moment, his underwear.

He shivers when he straightens up. He’s been naked in front of her hundreds of times, now. He‘s nervous. 

“Come here,” she says, and finishes her whiskey.

…

She puts him on his knees, between her legs. He’s wearing his hair longer now than when they were drafted. Somewhere to put her fingers. 

“You’re going to get me off,” she says. “And you’re not going to come. You’re not going to touch yourself. You’re not going to touch me, either. You’re just going to use your mouth. Okay?”

He breathes, shaky, in and out. 

“Connor?”

“Okay,” he says. He has to clear his throat to do it. When she reaches out to cup his cheek, the nape of his neck, he lists into her hand.

“Go on,” she says. 

He starts slowly, nosing up her leg, the inside of her thigh. She’s still wearing the jersey and her panties and his watch and he glances up, when he reaches the hem of her shirt. She regards him, steady, and doesn’t pull it up. 

He pushes his head up under it, as best he can. She can’t feel as much through her panties, but she likes it, the slow build. It frustrates him, she can tell, but this isn’t about what he wants. He noses at her anyway, opens his mouth over her and soaks the fabric. The friction may not be pleasant against his tongue, but it makes her shudder. 

Jack keeps her hand on his neck, anchoring, and when she looks down he’s watching her face, hoping for—something. Approval, or praise, maybe. She threads her fingers through his hair.

“Get me off,” she says. Then he’ll get his praise. 

He closes his eyes, doubles down. He’s got long eyelashes, she notices a little abstractly. She can’t see the rest of his face, below where the jersey is rucked up over the bridge of his nose, just his eyes and the way they flutter. Sometime, she’ll have to ask him to wear a blindfold. 

“Yes,” she sighs, and slings one leg over his shoulder, opens herself more. It allows him to nose her panties aside, partly, and for the first time all night she can feel his tongue on her bare skin. He makes a low hum. “Yes,” she says again.

Connor’s so good at this. She’s made him so much better, taught him exactly what she likes, and he’s coachable. That’s what she’s always heard. She always knew, from the first time they did this, that he liked eating her out. She didn’t realize until later that it might have something to do with how much he likes her taking control. 

He reaches up for her, instinctively, and she slaps his hand away. “I can pin them, if you need me to,” she says, “hold you down, sit on your face.”

His eyes flash, but he drops his hands back into his lap. 

He can’t touch, but she can—reaches down between her legs and slips two fingers inside herself. He makes a soft noise, has to tilt his head to work around her. 

He’s so hot her for her, like this. Between his eager mouth and her fingers, it doesn’t take her much longer to clench up, pulling him in with her leg over his back, her fingers in his hair. 

He gasps, when she lets him sit back, like he wasn’t getting enough air. Probably wasn’t, but he’s so hard he’s dripping onto his own thigh and his eyes, when he blinks them open, are all pupil.

“Good, Connor,” she says, and lets him suck her wet fingers into his mouth. It makes her think about the dildo she fucks him with, sometimes, if he’d let her make him suck it off. If he’d suck someone else off, if she told him to. If he’d let her watch. 

They’ve never talked about bringing in someone else. 

That’s the problem, with doing this. It makes her want things that she’s afraid of; things she’s scared to ask for, that she doesn’t even know if she really wants. 

He’s scruffy around the edges. Jack doesn’t mind it, the feel of it on her legs, between her thighs and on her hand, but there’s something in her that wants to push, just to see. She pulls her fingers out of his mouth, uses her wet hand to squeeze his cheeks gently, just enough to make his mouth a pink circle. His lips are swollen, already. He’s going to be so ruined, by the time she’s done. 

“Would you shave, if I asked you to?”

“Yes,” he says.

And that’s the problem, with doing this. He says yes, and the things that she’s scared to ask for, it’s because she’s scared he’ll say yes.

_Would you have a threesome with me, if I asked you to? With me and another man? Would you suck his cock, would you let him fuck you while you fucked me? Would you let me fuck you over the counter in the bathroom and make you watch in the mirror, if I asked you to? Would you let me slap you? Spank you? Would you let me make you cry, or beg, or crawl? Would you let me make you call me during the season and beg to come, if I asked you to?_

_Would you let me own you, if I asked you to?_

“Jack?” 

“I don’t want you to shave,” she admits, and thumbs over his jaw. She wants to kiss him, but it seems like the kind of thing that should wait. “I want you to get me off again. Okay?”

Connor nods, as best as he can against her grip in his hair. “Okay,” he says, and she stands.

“Take my panties off,” she says, and then, when his hands come up to her hips half-automatically, she reminds him, “no hands.”

It’s more difficult than she had bargained for. He kneels upright, mouths against her stomach for a moment, brushing a kiss. He manages to get his teeth around the band of her underwear, tug them half down, but her ass, her hips make it hard to work them down. He makes a frustrated sound, tries again, but she doesn’t want this night to be about failure, so she hooks her free thumb into the band and shimmies them down herself, after a moment. 

His face shutters; he sits back on his knees.

“Shh,” she soothes, and then she can’t help it any longer, smooths his hair back and leans down to give him a soft kiss. “You did good, Connor. That was my fault.”

He only half believes her, she can tell, because he sets his jaw and actually pulls his hands behind his back, grasping his own forearms.

She pulls her jersey off, drops it on the floor and leaves them both naked, perches back on the edge of the couch.

It takes her more the second time, when she’s already come, and he knows it—she likes it harder, sloppier, faster, and he obliges. She makes a hard, high sound when she comes against his open mouth, something close to a scream. 

He’s watching her, when she opens her eyes, still holding his own arms back, head resting against one of her thighs. He looks calmer than when he arrived tonight, almost tired, but there’s still something about the tension in his shoulders that tells her that they’re not done yet. 

“Hey,” she says, and reaches back out, combs fingers through his hair. “You wanna go for the hatty?”

He flickers a smile up at her, an answer.

“Come up here,” Jack says, and lays across the couch, lengthwise. It’s a big couch, which is good, because Connor’s a big guy. She’d keep him on his knees all night if she had her way, but he just played a game and has another one tomorrow. “Don’t rub off on my couch, McDavid.”

It’s slower, this time. She keeps ahold of him by the hair, pulling him gently where she wants. She keeps pulling him off before she comes, teasing them both. Connor whines into the crease of her hip, the fourth time, and she laughs. “Eager,” she scolds, shaking his head a little by the hair. “You’ll make me come when I want you to, Connor.” It makes him whimper again. He must be close to the edge, himself. 

“Again,” she says.

She lets him follow through, this time, comes against his face, shuddering, for the third time in a row. She’s so oversensitive that she actually pushes his face away when he tries to keep mouthing at her; he doesn’t seem to mind, just sucks a bruise into her thigh, instead. 

“You like that so much, don’t you,” she says, panting. He doesn’t talk much, during sex, and she certainly doesn’t miss the porn-y ramblings of some of the other guys she’s been with, knows he likes it just from the way he reacts against her, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t still want to run her mouth, sometimes. “Eating me out? Getting your mouth on my cunt? I’ve never been with someone who liked it so much. I bet you’ve had this night marked on your calendar since July. I bet you’ve been looking forward to eating my pussy since then.”

He makes a sound against her leg, probably of assent. He looks wiped, but she knows how hard he is. How much he’s holding back, trying to be good. When she tightens the hand in his hair, he shudders. The watch she’s wearing catches the light. 

“You want to come, Connor?” she says. “You earned it.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you want it?” She tugs his head up, makes him look at her. His face is so open, now, just waiting for her next word. Relaxed, finally. “I’ll let you choose.”

He doesn’t say anything, for a long moment, just blinks at her. 

“You want me to blow you?” she asks. “Want me to fuck you? Hmm? Finger you?”

“Wanna fuck you,” he says, and she considers; she’s tender, oversensitive, but she’d promised. Truthfully, in five minutes, she’ll probably want to go again, anyway. 

“Get the condom,” she says. “You know where they are.”

He clambers off her a little clumsily. He’s so hard; Jack very carefully doesn’t laugh at him when he walks out towards the bathroom, cock bobbing. She stretches out on the couch, instead, reaches down to coax herself towards another orgasm. 

Connor pauses in the doorway on the way back into the living room, watches her touching herself. He still hasn’t even reached down to palm himself, didn’t ever touch her. He’s so good, for her. 

“I’m going for the dick trick,” she teases. 

She watches him cross the room to her: the calm of his face, the sureness of his gait. He kneels again, unbidden, by her head. “How do you want me?”

She rolls to her side to kiss him, hard and fast. He would do whatever she wanted, still. She could have him on the floor, the table, against the wall. She could ask him to fuck her so hard he left bruises and he would do it. 

“I want you like this,” she says, laying back, spreading her legs again. “You make me come again, and then I’ll let you.”

He’s heavy on her, but it’s a welcome weight, their bodies pressed together for the first time all night. She obliges when he leans down to kiss her, then reaches down and pinches at his nipples until he hisses. “You come when I tell you,” she reminds him, and he nods, reaches down to roll the condom on. 

Her nails are short for the season, but she scratches down his back anyway, when he slides in, watches in satisfaction when his face screws up. He’s breathing hard, pressing his forehead against her chest. 

“Come on,” she urges, and he starts to move a little unsteadily, fumbles a hand between them to rub at her clit. 

He thrusts five times, six, and then stills, trembling. “I can’t,” he says. 

Jack’s so close. “You will,” she says, steely. “Or you won’t come again while you’re here.”

He moves his hand before he starts fucking her again, thumbing at her clit, taking her closer. He dicks in again, a little abortively, mouths at her nipple and then sucks, hard, on the underside of her breast, leaving a hickey. The sharp pulse of pain carries her over, clenching around him, and he drops his head to her collarbone again. He’s shaking against her so minutely she might not even notice if she wasn’t intertwined with him, running a hand down his back.

“Can I?” he pleads after a moment. “Please, Jack, can I come?”

She bites her lip. It’s sick, how much she wants to hear it. “Yes,” she says. “Yeah, you can come.”

…

Connor wants to watch anything that’s not hockey, so she puts Friends on because she knows he loves it, even if she’s indifferent. They’re both naked, still, but she’s cleaned them up and pulled a few throw blankets around him. Connor’s head is in her lap, and he’s breathing so slowly that she would think he was asleep except that she can feel his eyelashes flutter every time he blinks.

“How are things?” She asks, after an episode and a half. She knows he doesn’t want to talk about it, but she just made him cry and so she thinks she might deserve an update. 

He breathes very, very deeply. “Difficult,” he says. 

She knew. She knows it, bone deep, the ashy taste of disappointment, knows that there’s nothing appropriate to say here, tonight, after she beat him on the ice and then put him on his knees. She just strokes his hair, lets the laugh track run in the background. 

“Thank you,” he says, after a while, and she startles. He’s a study in contrasts, confident to the point of cockiness on the ice and so reserved off it, bearing such a great weight on his shoulders nightly and then falling to his knees for her. 

She knows that they get different things from this; that’s the whole point. She doesn’t know what Connor gets, what he feels, exactly, but she can guess. All the pressure he faces, the expectations, maybe it’s nice for him to let someone else make the plays.  

And Jack, even with her C, is routinely dismissed, belittled and ignored. Here, she gets, almost precisely, the exact opposite. Power, and respect, and authority. 

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she says, “I wasn’t sure you were going to.”

“Because of that girl from the six?” Connor asks.

“Something like that.”

Connor hums, reaches up to palm her thigh. He has to leave for curfew soon, but. They’ve got time. “I always feel better after seeing you,” he says. 

“Well,” Jack says, and touches her fingers to his lips. He opens his mouth, sucks gently at the pads of her fingertips. “Come anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> THAT STORY wAS NEVER MEANT TO HaVE A SEQUEL!!! WHAT AM I EVEN DOING!!! HERE's THE PORNY FOLLOW UP THAT NO-ONE WANTED. 
> 
> Undernegotiated D/s--they have played like this before and are implied to have an understanding of how things will go, and nothing goes wrong in this fic, but there is no on-screen negotiation, safewords, etc. Needless to say, please don't use this as a sex manual. I did v little research and these dummies did even less.
> 
> I had a hard time tagging this one? So happy to update if needed. Drop me a line, even if it's to be like 'wtf dude?' Because that's how I feel about this one. 
> 
> Title from "Off to the Races." See also: "Be a good baby, do what I want."


End file.
